March from thy Greece with firm majestic tread!
Such as when Athens saw thee fill her scene,
When Sophocles thy choral graces led:
Saw thy proud pall its purple length devolve;
Saw thee uplift the glittering dagger high;
Ponder with fixed brow thy deep resolve,
Prepar’d to strike, to triumph, and to die.
Bring then to Britain’s plain that choral throng;
Display thy buskin’d pomp, thy golden lyre;
Give her historic forms the soul of song,